


no gods, no masters

by cobbvanth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heavy themes surrounding the reader's past/present, Light descriptions of blood and injury, Mentions of indentured servitude (yikes), Tags will be updated as the story progresses, major spoilers for The Mandalorian S2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Summary: a small miniseries leading up to throne f*cking. that's it.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett/Reader, Boba Fett/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60





	no gods, no masters

The Dune Sea stretches for miles in an endless expanse of pottery colored sand. **  
**

Jabba’s Palace overlooks a portion of it. Resting at its periphery like a worn and forgotten fortress - a place that, years ago, used to have a more lucrative purpose. Drugs and bounties flowed freely through the doors. Humanoids and creatures alike got high, had fun, and most importantly, made money. Left only to fall after Jabba’s death, people stopped coming and soon the sandblasted metal and stone building began to fall to ruin. As food and water started to run out, many of the employees moved on too, abandoning the castle to survive or pursue more fruitful ventures. His mercenaries found different work. The spice trade moved on. Beastmaster Malakili had stayed for as long as he could despite the treatment he endured. A strange and sad man, stupidly loyal, but he had eventually gone, too, to Mos Pelgo, the last you heard. Leaving you and a few stragglers to wait - for you, against your will - the arrival of a new Hutt to occupy the dais. 

Then Bib Fortuna showed up. 

You had only been under Jabba’s control for less than a standard year when he had died, about three of four lunar months before the arrival of two talkative droids and the destruction that had followed. Pitifully young and without many options, your whole adolescent life had been devoted to dancing. Your parents, poor gas miners from Bespin, had spent most of their combined incomes on sending you to school and foolishly assumed once you graduated that Tatooine would be as good a planet as any to take a chance on. They’d become moisture farmers. You’d have a better life. Only to quickly find themselves with no credits, no foodstuff, and no prospects. 

Aside from you. 

You still struggle to understand it. Try not to think about it too much. Deciding that instead of allowing your grief and betrayal to rip open your heart and send you spiraling into righteous rage to be glad instead, relieved. The money they had sold you for is, even still, keeping them alive, fed, and comfortable. 

The Hutt Council spent a long time trying to determine who would fill Jabba’s seat. In the meanwhile you remained in the palace, watching its inhabitants dwindle as many of his slaves were set free after the battle at Carkoon. You hadn’t been one of the lucky ones. Jabba’s favorite, they couldn’t possibly get rid of you. It kept you alive while you served under him, then trapped, and as the weeks still passed with no apparent heir you began to worry that you’d meet the fate your parents had desperately spent their whole lives avoiding: dying of starvation, isolated and afraid. You had survived only by the skin of your teeth. Learned to scavenge. To bargain. The power vacuum that had been created with the subsequent fall of the Empire made the following five years precarious and hostile. You had to grow up, to harden yourself, and have since done your best to accept your fate. 

The throne room is thick with hookah smoke, poorly lit and bathed in red. Shackled to the platform beneath where Bib is seated, you can’t do much to escape his exhales. A cloud, wispy and grey, surrounds his head as he breathes - dissipates when he speaks, his voice garbled and harsh, giving commands in Huttese to the pig-like Gamorrean guards that pace the room with wide, shovel-like spears. Other humanoids surround him as if trying to leech off the authority he exudes; servants waiting on his every whim, laughing when he does, becoming angry when he is, silent in their reverence when the Twi’lek lifts his staff. 

You stay quiet and refuse to look at him until and unless absolutely necessary, move only when absolutely necessary too. The chain you’re in makes an obnoxious amount of noise, no doubt on purpose, having tried more than once to escape. You’ve learned the hard way not to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself. Still, it’s not often that you go unnoticed. 

“Koose je doe girl. _Ateema_.” A command, gruff and slimy.

The man to his right moves forward, nudges your lower back with the toe of his boot. “Get up.”

You keep your head down, grit your teeth. The cuffs around your wrists rattle as you jostle slightly, the length of them twisting like a snake. You’ve been ignored all morning, should have seen this coming, but it doesn’t get any easier to deal with - the shame and embarrassment doesn’t lessen, you haven’t grown callus to it or numb. In a lot of ways you’re better off than you had been half a decade ago, have learned how to keep yourself living, but have yet to master the unforgiving art of forgoing your autonomy. Individuals, although amusing, are not who he wants. 

“Are you deaf, girl? Get up!” 

Rising slowly to your feet, you look directly into the face of the Taung’s face. “I heard him.” 

“Then go.” He shoves you forward, forcing you to take the first step towards Bib’s throne. Barefoot, you focus on the cold stone beneath your feet as you get closer, refusing to look into his blanched, greasy face, focused instead on the grimy and tattered ends of his robes. 

“Ah, she listens. _Stubborn_. But that’s alright.” Bib’s smile reveals two rows of sickeningly sharp teeth. “Are you in the mood to dance?” 

You remain silent. You won’t give him the satisfaction of answering his question, even as he waits in patient silence. No one else seems to catch the muted sound of footsteps. You glance very quickly at the entryway.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” 

His cane rises at the edges of your vision and you stiffen, bracing yourself for the touch of it against your cheek and the sharp tap that will follow. You look at him just as it happens, the end of it catching your bottom lip, forcing it against your teeth, flooding your mouth with the taste of iron. His pink eyes bore into your face. You want to spit out your blood onto his. 

Bib’s stares back, then his expression drops and he rolls his eyes as the rod returns to his side. Spoiled. “Nevermind, mee’m bored gee u ateema.” He dismisses, waving his other hand. “Leave me.” 

Bringing your hands to your face, you attempt to control the shaking in them as you gingerly touch the small gash painting your teeth red. Your fingertips come away red. It will take three or four days for your lip to heal properly, enough time to perhaps give you the chance to recover from this interaction before the next one happens - a small blessing, a bitter silver lining. Sitting, you don’t have to look to see the way Bib leans back, murmuring something amused and filthy, chuckling at his mistreatment. 

The henchman responds in agreement. Bib raises his voice, addresses the room. 

Whatever else he has to say, however, is interrupted by the sharp slicing of blaster fire coming from the top of the steps opposite from where you remain anchored, defenseless and with nowhere to go. 

A body falls down them, rolls onto the landing. The shadow of whoever had shot descends. 

You don’t so much as flinch. This place breeds violence. You dislike admitting to yourself that you’ve become indifferent to it, but there’s a certain level of regularity and normality to the fighting that happens here that has muted your emotions, immediate fear no longer the kind of response you have anymore. Anyone, after a period of time, would get used to watching it happen, and condition themselves into believing that it’s just something integral and even natural to businesses like this, forgetting then that much safer, less hostile places exist.

He sends another to fight back. He halfway up before he’s shot, his weapon dropping from his hand and clanging against the sandstone, his corpse slumping against the wall. 

The lounge erupts into chaos. 

The next to go are the guards to his left, situated behind his throne and further back in the room. Pig squeals and alarmed shouting join the ping of gun fire and the clattering of armor. No one has ever gotten this far, has taken out so many so quickly. You’re standing, on the ground now, tugging against the binders, desperately trying to get the durasteel to budge. Truly, honestly, afraid for the first time since being placed into custody. 

A woman appears as you’re struggling. Raises her blaster in your direction, fires. 

You cringe, close your eyes and wait for it, but she hadn’t been aiming for you - fires at the chains instead, the ones you had pulled taut enough to give her a clear shot - releasing you from the small stage. Now lax, you lose your footing, stumbling backwards, catching yourself on your wrists. 

Looking at her, she makes a subtle gesture with her chin. 

Getting to your feet, you rush to the back of the dias, hurrying up the flight of stairs that led to the servant’s quarters. You stop in the middle of the staircase, close enough to still hear what’s going on, far enough away to no longer be in immediate danger, and lean against the cool stairwell, willing the adrenaline to leave your system before it distracts you from listening. 

“Boba!” Bib’s greeting echoes up the hallway. “I thought you were dead. I am so glad to see you.” 

An attempt to save his skin. You recognize the man’s name, but you had been afraid to pay attention back then, fearful of being anything other than obedient. He and Jabba had been allies, and with the way the others had talked about him it was almost as if they had assumed that he might be the one to take Jabba’s place. 

But he never showed up. That is, until now. 

His boot spurs jingle as the palace’s newest guest approaches.

What you know from more recent eavesdropping is that Boba has a score to settle. Bib likes to talk, likes to brag, cowardly and hyperbolic, telling anyone who would listen that he had rightfully earned his place on Jabba’s throne, having gotten rid of any competition who might challenge his divine right. _Leaving that bounty hunter to die in the stomach of a sarlacc._ Defeating a man who’s name struck dread into the hearts of people across the galaxy unfortunate enough to hear it. It doesn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one to do it, that it had actually been a stupid accident that sent Boba tumbling into the sand, but no one has to know that. All that matters is that he was the one to return. 

“I had heard so many rumors!” The high pitched terror in his voice makes you want to laugh when really none of this is funny. He’s going to kill Bib, and although the woman with him had let you go, there’s still no guarantee she’d extend another mercy if they found out you were still here. 

There’s the jarring of Boba’s blaster moving as he raises it and aims only seconds before the trigger is pulled. You creep down in time to see Bib slump, his claw of a hand still wrapped around his cane. Boba steps forward, off the trap doors and towards the throne, tossing your former captor’s body out of the chair and onto the floor. The woman with him walks behind it, headed no doubt for the shelves of alcohol, wanting to celebrate their victory. In your line of sight which means that if she were to turn her head, you’d be in her’s, but as you go to leave your foot slips, you don’t move fast enough, the cuffs still around your wrists chime and she finds you anyway. 

She rises to her full height, holding in her hand a half empty bottle of blue spotchka. You’re frozen on the third to last stair. She glances towards the throne that Boba now resides. 

“I thought I had set you free.” The woman’s tone is slightly bemused, mostly puzzled, and looks as if she’s quietly sizing you up. 

Your gaze shifts uneasily between them both, Boba turning his head to look at you. If there’s a way to still get out of this, you aren’t seeing it. 

“Come out. We aren’t going to hurt you.” 

Stepping down, you feel incredibly stupid for not having left using the chance you were given. These people have shown how ruthless they are. You want to trust that what she has said is true, that they won’t harm you, but you have very little trust in anything coming from anyone. Words are just words. Actions are far more indicative of the truth. Another lesson you had to learn the hard way. 

“Please…I’m not still here because I want to be.” 

The bounty hunter and the woman share a look. 

“Why are you then?” The man this time - Boba - rising to his full height, folding his hands together and resting them against the front of his utility belt. “Surely not because you liked it.” 

“I have nowhere to go-” 

“Most people don’t.” 

His words quiet you, falter what little confidence you have in speaking to them. You’re used to being weak, but you aren’t familiar with being this helpless. To go out into the desert now would mean going hungry within two days, given you don’t run into something much worse on your journey to nowhere. 

“I’ve been here for almost all my life. This place is all I know. I can’t leave now, not unless I know where I’m going.” 

Boba makes a noise of acknowledgement. “That’s too bad. You should get good at reading a map. Fennec, escort this princess out of the palace.” 

Fennec looks at you, her expression close to unreadable, yet you can sense her hesitation. For whatever reason, good or bad, she isn’t quick to follow his instructions. You thank the Maker for it anyway. 

“All I’m asking is for a night. Please.” 

You’re relying on her, this heavily armed and incredibly dangerous woman. If she shot you now, it’d be a quicker and more preferable death. 

Fennec approaches, going to stand close enough to Boba that she can speak quietly, her back to you, the rifle she’s shouldering catching in the light. “They’re not a threat.” 

“We are not slavers. What purpose would keeping her here serve us?” 

She drops her head, and after a moment of silence looks up into his helmet. 

“I wouldn’t have survived in the sands if you hadn’t found me. Nor would you have if you hadn’t been. Do we leave her to the same fate?” 

Forced to deliberate this, Boba looks away. Whatever she’s saying, it appears to be working in the way of changing his mind, or at least stalling his decision to throw you out on your own. If he were a younger man, less attuned with the universe and its karmic functions, he’d probably have thrown you out himself by now, destined to die or not. But he isn’t, and Shand is right. 

“You can stay until morning. Figure out what you’re doing by then.” 

You could collapse with relief. 

Boba returns to his position on the throne, having given his first ‘decree’ while Fennec turns her attention to you again. You aren’t sure what you anticipated happening if and after they let you stay, too caught up in a panicked whirlwind of thought wondering if you’d lose your life first that you hadn’t considered or put much time into worrying about what to do or what to say, or if you should say or do anything at all. Thank them, maybe, but that feels too sanctimonious, makes you feel too desperate. 

So you don’t say anything at all. 

“Walk with me. I want you to show me around.” 

Her request surprises you. If she isn’t familiar with this place, she makes a good show of pretending, had mowed through the guards as if she knew where they’d be and how many. Although you get the impression that this isn’t about to be just some incredibly sad house tour. 

“Okay um…the staircase behind me leads to the servants quarters. It’s where I typically sleep if I’m not down here…” You make a gesture towards it, looking up the long set of steps. You’re only place of reprieve, if it could even be called that. You had shared the room with three other girls when you first arrived. All of them from different planets. Nice, sweet. They made good company, even better friends, but you had been forced to watch, one by one at different times with no way of helping, as they fell through the trapdoor a few feet away from where you had been locked in place yourself, and eaten alive, having to keep your horror to yourself. You stopped getting to know their replacements after that. 

Fennec walks with you as you cross the room and head towards another set of steps, these ones descending into a small pit - a doorway to your left and another to your right with a sloping archway in front of you. “Up there leads to the guest elevator. Over here will take you to the guest quarters.” 

Talking is an easy and surprising distraction, even though it hurts. You know every bit of this place. What leads where, the shortcuts to take, which rooms the guests prefer and which they don’t. The layout of this building has been slowly replacing the one of your childhood, encroaching on the memories like an invasive species, quietly suffocating it until all that remains as of late are blurry images and a sense of longing nostalgia. You’ve been a palace expert at a troubling cost. 

“The display alcove is this way-” 

“You’re injured.” 

Instinctively bringing your hand to your lip, it’s easier to shrug it off than to explain and relive what had happened - the last few violent moment’s of Bib’s life. Besides, it’s stopped bleeding. “I’ve had worse.” 

Fennec stops walking, squares her shoulders and levels you with a look. “Should that make it any better?” 

You drop your hand and look away. “No, but it’s not your responsibility to ask, either. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ll be fine.” 

“We’ve all learned to survive.” She speaks softer now, quieter. “One way or another. Perhaps the three of us know this better than most, but there is a difference between taking care of yourself and living.” 

You’re silent, trying to find the bravery to look into her face. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Now you have the chance to.”


End file.
